


if secrets were like seeds

by blueprintofyourpast



Series: bridges [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Identity Reveal, Idiots in Love, Introspection, May Parker is a Saint, Michelle Jones Doesn't Know How to Communicate Her Feelings, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Pining, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Precious Peter Parker, Recovery, Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie), injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-10-17 22:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20628404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueprintofyourpast/pseuds/blueprintofyourpast
Summary: “I’m – I-I’m not pining after her,” he stammers, “O-Or anyone.”Ned kicks off his ratty trainers.“If you say so.”“I’m just – ”“Making googly eyes at her like she’s the only other person in the room?”“No!” his voice shoots up an octave or two, switching into full squeaky-mode, and he spins his head from left to right to make sure that their classmates are out of earshot before he blows out a sigh: “Okay,yes, but the whole antisocial-surly-old-man-thing? I don’t know why, but I think it’s kinda cute?”“Dude.”...Or: Thanks to MJ, Peter is caught in a glass case of emotions. Good thing he has a plan.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for the feedback on the previous installment <3
> 
> the title is a direct quote from _no plan_ by hozier.
> 
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> disclaimer: i own nothing.

So, he likes her.

Why wouldn’t he? She’s awesome. She’s amazing. She’s the coolest person he’s ever met, and she’s achingly beautiful, too. He can’t believe that it took him so long to finally see it. That it took him so long to wake up and pay attention to the little things, but now that he does, he can’t bring himself to stop.

(The curve of her neck and the whiff of lime and peppermint that’s pegged to her hair and clothes. The faint tremble that seeps into her voice when she gets the chance to talk about the things that really matter to her. The dimples that explode on her cheeks when she can’t suppress a laugh. Her wide brows and slender wrists. The way she moves, the way she thinks. It’s all part of her wayward charm and it pulls him in, makes him feel soft and mushy inside, and it’s awful and invigorating and everything in-between.)

May finds out after Midtown High’s annual science fair. 

They’re having dinner at this new Turkish place and he shows her a couple of pictures on his phone. It’s mostly selfies of him and Ned showing off their self-built electric motor (and later, the Audi he borrowed from Agent Thomas), but there’s one particular photo that pulls a small, contemplative huh from May’s lungs.

(It’s a group shot of all the contestants making faces in front of the gym hall entrance, and Peter’s looking at MJ even though there are about twelve people huddled up between them. He’s looking at her even though she’s busy flipping off the camera, and his eyes are treacherous, they’re full of wonder and reverence and – ) 

“It’s nice,” May says eventually, grinning at him over their free dessert; behind her specs, her brown eyes sparkle with wistful delight, “You’re a kid, Peter. It’s perfectly normal for kids to be head over heels for each other.”

He nearly chokes on his Baklava.

_Fuck._

“Okay. First of all, I’m 16 years old, so I’m basically a man. And secondly, I’m not head over heels for MJ. I like her as a friend. A person,” he gulps loudly, “A friend-person.”

He cringes, coughs, and there must be something wrong with the restaurant’s AC because suddenly, it’s like he’s sitting next to an open flame. May’s grin becomes impossibly smug. He withstands the urge to tug at his collar.

“A friend-person,” she says.

“Yes.”

She stares him down for a second, drained fondness written all over her face. 

She knows. She knows that he’s a terrible liar. That he doesn’t want to lie to her, but that he’s also desperate for her to go along with his bullshit because he’s scared and insecure and because he _just_ figured it out himself. She knows he’s going to come to her when he’s ready anyway, so she leaves him be.

“Okay.”

Relief is a sweet, sweet thing. It sweeps the weight off his chest and mitigates the tension that’s been clawing at his shoulder blades. It’s soothing and alleviating…

… and it’s fake as hell, so of course, it doesn’t last long because later, when he’s back home, he has an earth-shattering epiphany. Because later, when he’s lying in his bed and, for once, on the verge of sleep, his eyes fly open and he’s wide awake again because his aunt is a smart woman and she said it was perfectly normal for kids to be head over heels for each other, so she wasn’t just talking about him.  
She was talking about MJ, too…

_… right?_

“I don’t know, man,” Ned offers a week later while they’re getting dressed for Wednesday morning gym class, “I don’t think she’s into that sorta stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Touchy-feely stuff.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Like May, Ned throws him a half-exhausted, half-affectionate glare he’s not entirely sure what to make of until they’re back in the locker room, exhausted (or in Peter’s case exhausted from feigning exhaustion) because Coach Wilson chased them around the football field for 90 minutes straight. 

(Even the few students who unironically enjoy gym class look like they’re about to faint or vomit. Or both.)

“She’s not exactly a people person,” Ned explains, still slightly out of breath as he plops down on the bench, “I bet she tells little kids to get off her lawn ‘cause she’s actually a surly old man in disguise,” he wipes at his forehead, “And you’re busy, right? You don’t really have the time to pine after her.”

Halfway out of his gym shirt, Peter drops his arms. There’s a lot that needs to be discussed (and vehemently denied) here, starting with the whole pining thing, which is totally not the case because – 

“I’m – I-I’m not pining after her,” he stammers, “O-Or anyone.”

Ned kicks off his ratty trainers.

“If you say so.”

“I’m just – ”

“Making googly eyes at her like she’s the only other person in the room?”

“No!” his voice shoots up an octave or two, switching into full squeaky-mode, and he spins his head from left to right to make sure that their classmates are out of earshot before he blows out a sigh: “Okay, _yes_, but the whole antisocial-surly-old-man-thing? I don’t know why, but I think it’s kinda cute?”

“Dude.”

“Like, she doesn’t give a damn about what other people might think or say about her, and she’d rather die than change anything about her personality just to fit in,” he says, getting more flustered by the second, “She’s just _real_, you know?”

“_Dude_.”

With a hint of understanding flashing up in his eyes, Ned peers up at him, his head tilted to the side as if he’s calculating his next words. 

(He’s always had a natural knack for sugar-coating hard truths. And he’s smart. Way smarter than he pretends to be.)

“This is serious.”

There’s no judgement or derision tainting his tone, just vague astonishment and perhaps a pinch of sympathy. He’s just stating a fact and Peter would be an idiot (and a bad friend) if he didn’t appreciate that, so he takes a deep breath.

“Yeah.”

“You really like her.”

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit.”

“I _know_.”

The noise that wriggles past his teeth comes close to a whine because Ned is right: he likes MJ. He likes her so fucking much, and the hopeless romantic in him wants to shout it from the rooftops. The hopeless romantic in him wants to spring into action, wants to woo her and take her out on a date and just _be_ with her all the time.

The paranoid, battle-bruised hero in him, however, is ready to put his foot down and give him a reality check because after all, being with MJ (even as dorky, dumbass Peter Parker) would put a target on her back and he can’t risk that. He can’t let that happen, so he tries to turn it all off: the lingering stares, nervous smiles, and the soft, mushy feelings. 

(He tries and he fails spectacularly because by the end of junior year, it’s already too late. By the end of junior year, he’s too far gone.

He’s too caught up in the wave of excitement that hits him in the gut when she starts to look right back at him, too enthralled by the way she calls him uber-dweeb like it’s a twisted term of endearment, and too addicted to the thrill that comes with the sight of her lips curling into the same tentative smile she couldn’t hide from him when they were sitting next to each other in that café.)

By the end of junior year, he’s too tempted by the idea that maybe this _isn’t_ one-sided. 

That maybe May was right after all.

“Of course, I was right!” she beams at him, roughly a month before his school trip to Europe, “So, what are you gonna do about it?”

She’s making spaghetti for dinner. Her apron is speckled with tomato sauce, her grin is wide, and Peter is fucking _giddy_ as he moves to set the table.

“I think I’m gonna tell her.”

Saying it out loud doesn’t make him feel stupid or embarrassed because it turns out that there’s nothing stupid or embarrassing about liking someone. 

Especially when someone is MJ.

(Awesome, amazing, achingly beautiful MJ, who’s out of everybody’s league and pretty much the least approachable girl on the planet. Whose humour borders on plain morbidity and whose love for art and murder mysteries is utterly endearing. Michelle “Talk-to-me-while-I’m-reading-and-I’m-gonna-fucking-murder-you” Jones, who possibly, hopefully likes him back.

MJ, who was thumbing through that James Ellroy novel back when they were on their way to the Avengers Tower. Back when Peter was bursting at the seams, when he was numb, depressed, and so disoriented. When the fire in her eyes and the faint hum of that jazz song took the edge off his grief.)

Observing her, making an effort to talk to her during lunch, and not bailing on her and the rest of the decathlon team, secretly cataloguing her outfits and facial expressions – it changed everything. It brought him back. Piece by piece, little by little.

And sure, he still wakes up screaming sometimes. He still has to stop, tear his mask off, and throw up in an alley or on some rooftop when swinging around the neighbourhood starts to feel too much like being hurled from one explosion into the next. 

He still doesn’t talk about Mr Stark, and the memory of his skin and bones crumbling to dust still makes his blood run cold, but it’s better now.

_He’s_ better now because he learned that thinking about MJ and replaying their conversations in his head when he’s out at night prevents him from thinking about what happened upstate. It keeps him sane, keeps him safer than his bulletproof suit, and she doesn’t even know it.

She doesn’t even know that she’s been helping him recover for so many months now, and she might never know because he can’t tell her about his superhero identity. He can’t tell her about what he’s been through, but he owes her at least one of his many, many secrets, so he’s going to be honest and tell her how he feels.

“I’m happy for you,” May pipes up, rummaging through the spice rack and coming up with a bottle of tabasco and some other condiments that should never be mixed together unless you don’t care too much about your tastebuds and vital organs, “But when are you gonna tell her? And where? How?”

He sidles up to the kitchen counter, pushes the curry powder out of her reach. He smirks and doesn’t pull away when she swats his arm and ruffles his hair.

“Don’t worry,” he says, relishing the frantic flutter in his chest, “I have a plan.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the delay. i guess real life can be weird and hella time-consuming when you least expect it. also: this chapter is a clusterfuck. i came up with, like, five different versions of it and i kinda hate them all, but i had to stop fretting it at some point, so here we are.
> 
> for what it’s worth, try to enjoy :D

Well, his plan kinda sucks. It starts to fall through as soon as he enters the plane, and then it gets even worse.

Since he was born with a lifetime supply of bad luck, he doesn’t get to sit next to MJ and he doesn’t get to watch movies with her the whole time either. Instead, he gets to sit next to Mr Harrington of all people while MJ and Brad look alarmingly comfortable as _they_ sit next to each other and watch movies together the whole time.

_Fucking great._

Three hours into the flight, he’s getting tired of glaring holes into the back of Brad’s head, so he thinks about May and the pep talks she’s been giving him for the past weeks.

(She’s rooting for him. Apparently, there’s just no way MJ doesn’t like him back because he is, as a matter of fact, very likeable. And that’s kinda, sorta good news. After all, _likeable_ is better than _appalling_ and if MJ found him appalling she wouldn’t’ve helped him out when Flash tried to make fun of him earlier.)

But still, he doesn’t get to sit next to her, and Brad is tall and tanned and confident and how the hell is Peter supposed to top that? With his lame puns and terrified rambling? His likeable-ness? 

_Yeah, no._

He blows out a huff and scrolls through the media library – and that’s when it gets worse. That’s when the number of documentaries about Iron Man make him freeze up from within. That’s when the low hum of the plane pulls him under and back in time until he’s on his way to Berlin in a private jet, his cheeks swollen with pride and joy and disbelief because the Tony Stark came to him and asked him for help, asked him (Him! Peter Parker!) to come to Germany and fight by his side.

(He was so excited, so impatient and full of zest for action. He returned to Queens with a black eye and a new suit. And then, after the whole Vulture debacle, after he made a mess and had a whole fucking building dumped on him, he found a new purpose (namely, looking out for the little guy without feeling like he’s destined for greater things) and a new friend, too.

He found someone to look up to, someone he wanted to impress. Someone who berated him for his need to lighten the mood with pop-culture references when they were thousands of lightyears away from home. Someone who blinked at him with frightened eyes. Someone who told him that he was alright even though he wasn’t, even though he was dying, slipping through trembling fingers and collapsing into a pile of brown particles that were soon swept away by a cruel galactic breeze.

Someone who held him tight when he came back. Someone who always had to have the last word, even in death.)

_I am Iron Man._

He wakes with a start at nine o’clock in the morning, practically jostled out of his bittersweet dreams by the stuttering impact of synthetic rubber bumping against sun-kissed tarmac. He grabs his backpack and he isn’t surprised when he finds a familiar pair of eyes staring down at him from a giant screen at the terminal. 

He isn’t surprised because the final snap made Tony immortal. It pushed him into a casket and brought him back to life in a million murals, movies, paintings, and academic papers.

(“It’s the other way around now,” Pepper whispered back in January, looking skinnier than ever and wringing her hands in her lap while her coffee got cold, “He had this goofy picture of you. The one where you give each other bunny ears. He had it in his workshop first, then in the living room, then the kitchen.”

She paused and gave him a brittle smile, and he knew what she was trying to tell him. He knew that she could feel it, too, the melancholy twitch of your lips that startles you when you see the photo of a dead person and the disappointment that takes over when you realise that it’s really just that: a replica. A hyper-realistic look-alike, etched into glossy paper and processed to perfection. Slick, static, and soulless.

“You followed him everywhere,” she said, and it took everything within him not to flinch, relapse, and apologise for a death that could or could not have been prevented.)

So, he isn’t surprised, but he’s really fucking sick of it.

He’s sick of the constant lump in his throat, sick of losing his appetite every other day. He’s sick of the ups and downs. Of being stuck in a loop that sees him jump back and forth between hope, grief, detachment, and calm resignation. He’s so sick of it all, so fed up with holding himself together that once again, he finds himself leaning on the only person whose sheer existence (and he knows just how fucking cheesy that sounds) makes him feel whole or, at least, a little less damaged.

He finds himself leaning on her, and in the end, it’s almost too much. In the end, she makes his senses go haywire and he fears that he might die from the conspirational smirk she throws in his direction when they sail past the real bridge of sighs. He fears that he might die from the sight of her balancing a pair of doves on her arm with a crooked grin. He fears that he might die from her quiet laughter and the handful of minutes they spend strolling along the Grand Canal together, the box with the necklace a comfortable weight in his pocket.

But of course, he doesn’t die. 

Of course, he doesn’t get to bask in her presence any longer because of fucking course, some weird space magic turns the city into a war zone and prompts him to fling himself into the line of fire (or rather, water) without batting an eye before a stranger in a cape comes to defeat the… thing.

(With his broad shoulders, regal suit, and thoroughly charming nature, Mysterio resembles the prototype of every superhero that ever existed: he has Captain America’s sense of duty, Thor’s flair for the dramatic, and – Peter swallows – he has Tony’s smile.

There’s nothing that keeps him rooted to one place. Unlike Spider-Man, Mysterio is free to go and take on the bad guys, free to be the kind of person the world wants and needs him to be and it seems that he’s fine with that. It seems that, probably due to the fact that the people he loved most are already dead and gone, Quentin Beck stopped being Quentin Beck a long time ago. It seems that he chose to fully become his alter ego instead and sure, maybe that’s something Peter had wanted for himself before the blip, but now it’s different.

Now he’s worn out and bleary-eyed and he can’t stop complaining about his responsibility. Now he wants to be selfish and a little irresponsible. Now he wants to be Peter Parker and freak out over his crush instead of evil creatures from outer space. Now he wants to be a normal kid, even if it’s just for one day.)

“You look nice.”

The words get lost in an awkward stammer and it’s the sound of her door falling shut with a soft click that knocks him out of the skies once and for all. It’s the realisation that _this is it_ (even though the Elementals are gone, even though he found a way to pass Iron Man’s legacy on to someone who is actually capable of doing the job) that lets his frustration get the best of him.

The muscles in his face jump and he’s gnashing his teeth, thwacked with the urge to punch something. Or someone. Preferably Brad because surprise, the guy’s a total asshole, or himself because he can’t even go on vacation without leaving a trail of chaos in his wake. And hell yeah, Spider-Man saved the day again, but what about him? What about Peter?

Well, Peter smells like fire and smoke and all things terrible, but he doesn’t know when to stop and let things be, so he stumbles up to her door again, muttering under his breath and thinking oh wow, so this is what a heart attack feels like when he nearly stumbles right into her.

And then he starts to ramble.

He starts to ramble about how he wants to end the trip on a lighter note and do something fun, and he can feel his eyes grow wider with every syllable that leaves his mouth because she isn’t just really pretty. She’s so fucking beautiful, and he should probably stop talking because there’s only so much he can say to keep her from closing the door again. There’s only so much he can say before he starts to sound like an idiot and oh God, he already _does_, doesn’t he? He already sounds like an idiot and that’s not how he wanted to sound like at all, why does he _always_ end up sounding like a –

“Yes,” she blurts out and there’s something odd about the way she says it, but he’s too distracted by the blast of his pulse and the happy flutter in his chest to stop and read anything into it; he nearly does a double take.

“Yes, like, you wanna go?”

“Yes.”

It’s like she’s trying to stare into his soul and maybe she’s just as nervous as he is. Maybe she’s been waiting for him to ask her to hang out?

_Holy shit._

The thought alone turns his back into a concrete pillar and his insides into a soft, swirling mess. He tightens his grip on the strap of his backpack because right now, that’s the only thing that keeps his knees from giving out. He’s feeling dizzy, but in a good way, and that’s a rare thing to happen to him, so he might as well enjoy it.

“Okay. Awesome,” he couldn’t fight off his smile if his life depended on it, “I’ll see you outside in ten minutes?”

“Meet me outside in five minutes.”

Again, she sounds a little tense and again, he’s too flabbergasted to care. She said _yes_, and before he knows it, he’s ferreting all over his room for a decent shirt because contrary to what he told her before he took off to his room, five isn’t good. Five is the exact opposite of good, so he practically dives into his suitcase and comes up with his NASA tee and it’s nerdy as hell, but it’s also undeniably Peter and that’s what this is about.

This is about _him_, and when he’s waiting for her in the lobby and watching the news he thinks that maybe there’s still hope for his plan. He thinks that if he survives going for a walk with her in Prague right after he fought a giant lava monster, he might also survive going on a real date with her once they’re back in New York. Unless this isn’t a date, of course, which would be… disappointing to say the least.

But maybe it is. Maybe this _is_ a date. Maybe she’s going to tell him that she likes him just as much as he likes her. Maybe she’s going to let him hold her hand for a while and maybe, just maybe, she’s going to let him kiss her, too. Maybe this is going to be the start of something that doesn’t revolve around Spider-Man and maybe he’s going to tell her one day anyway.

He can almost picture it all. He can almost picture his future self getting anxious and worked up about something MJ couldn’t be bothered by even if she tried. He can almost picture her not giving a flying fuck about whether he’s superhero or not because she chose him.

Because she cares about him, not Spider-Man. He can almost picture it and then he goes blind because it’s a pipe dream. It’s dumb. It’s bullshit.

(Turns out there was a reason why MJ was acting weirder than usual when he asked her out and why she couldn’t stop babbling about executions once they made it to Charles Bridge. Turns out there was a reason why she had agreed to take a walk with him in the first place. She wanted to confront him. About him being Spider-Man because she knows and apparently, it’s the only thing she cares about.

So, it takes her a little less than ten seconds to make him feel like someone punched a hole his chest, and it hurts like a bitch. Well, perhaps not as much as being run over by a high-speed train bound to fucking nowhere, but it’s definitively in the top five.)

In retrospect, he’s actually kinda glad that he didn’t get to the part where he was going give her the necklace. It would’ve been awkward because obviously, he had it all wrong. Obviously, nothing has ever been about him.

“F-Fuck…”

The train leans into a curve and he loses his balance and crashes into a doubleseat. The neon lights in the tunnel flicker like a set of stroboscopes and his mouth is full of blood. He tries to swallow it but the stuff keeps bubbling up his throat and by the time some of it has found a home on his clothes and the window to his left, there’s already another spate of it weighing down on his tongue, and he’s scared.

He can’t feel his legs. Some of his ribs are broken and his spleen might be ruptured as well. There are dark spots eating up his field of vision and for the first time since he was reduced to space dust, Peter feels like he might not make it. And that’s a huge fucking problem because he has to.

He has to make it.

Beck is out there with a fuckton of killer drones up his metaphorical sleeve, so he has to make it. Hill and Fury have no idea that Mysterio is a fraud and a psychopath who wants to burn London to the ground to fuel his twisted saviour narrative, so he has to make it. The MJ he failed to save when he was trapped in Beck’s illusion was wearing the same dress as the MJ he failed to confess his feelings to, which means that Beck’s people were _there_ with them on the bridge, so he has to make it. 

Everyone he knows is going to _die_ because he trusted the wrong person, so he has to fucking make it.

“C’mon,” his chest heaves and he can’t see, “C’mon, Peter.”

He moulds his palm against the cover of the box in his left pocket. He doesn’t know why he took it with him. The necklace shouldn’t matter anymore (not after what happened on Charles Bridge) but it does and he still wants her to have it because he’s stubborn and stupid and because he likes her (so, so much) and it’s okay that she doesn’t feel the same way. 

He just wants her to know that he thinks the world of her.

He just wants to get the secret out of his system and then go back to admiring her from afar.

His eyes flutter close.

There’s no-one here to give him a pep talk, no-one for him to lean on. There’s only blood and broken bones and a box with a necklace in his hand, and somehow that’s enough. Somehow that’s enough for him not slip away entirely when his body goes slack in the darkness. Somehow that’s enough for him to turn the other way when Ben and Tony – picture-perfect and a little too fictitious – ask him to come with them.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, here's my [tumblr](https://blueprintofyourpast.tumblr.com).


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